Taylor Swift: my kryptonite

Taylor Swift: my kryptonite

When junior Kale Walch hears Taylor Swift, he can’t help but react violently. Here we see him “curb stomping” Ms. Swifts latest album “Speak Now.”

Kale Walch

Through the years, Taylor Swift has produced a worthy lot of albums. Worthy of being burned.

Recently, Miss Swift spawned her newest abomination, her third one in fact. She calls these collections of noise “albums,” naming her new noise: “Speak Now.” Amidst the shallow lyrics of this new album lies truth: the album is truly horrible.

You don’t even have to listen to the album to realize how awful it is; just look at the album cover. Is there someone under all that makeup? No. And if there is someone under there, do you think she can sing? No.

I tried to listen to this album with an open mind, but with such awful, stereotypical track names, (“Last Kiss”, “Never Grow Up”, “The Story of Us”) I only wanted to grow up, and give this album a last kiss goodbye.

The very first track, “Sparks Fly” was indeed bad, sounding like a dying cat to the tune of Hannah Montana. What I didn’t anticipate was the flow of blood streaming from both of my ears about two minutes in.

After going through a package of cotton balls in an attempt to stop the bleeding, I resolved to attempt the second track, “Back to December.” Popular theory suggests that on this track, Swift was attempting to sound sensitive and reflective. As usual however, she fails. I only lasted about 27 seconds in this case, before I had to re-bandage my wounded ears.

I had to consult my doctor before I even considered a third listen. He recommended a three hour rest and a bottle of Tylenol. I gladly complied.

Three hours later, I grudgingly rose, told my dog Patrick that I loved him, took out a life insurance policy, and attempted the third track. This was the big one, the real deal, the final boss: the title track, “Speak Now.” All was good until Taylor started singing. The song sounded remarkably like everything else she spawned before this: stereotypical teenage drama to the tune of a screaming American blond. I think I heard her try to sing something about a wedding and a church and how she was just so angry about it.

Sometime during that dreadful track, I must’ve gone unconscious either from the shock of hearing something so purely bad, or due to the blood loss from my ears. My sister rushed to my computer, and began to play Radiohead, the only thing that could save me from the wretched state I was in. (Radiohead is a GOOD band, for those poor souls still listening to Taylor’s noise).

Weeks passed before the doctors allowed me to walk around, or even eat solid food. They prescribed a daily regiment of The Smiths and Joy Division, which would have me back at full power within a couple weeks.

The moral of the story? Donate your Taylor Swift albums to charity. Or better yet, destroy them in a blast furnace. I preferred the latter.